Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘Bastards!’ Mangold spat. ‘You’re all bastards, the whole bloody lot of you!’

And then, a minute or so later, and with back-up arriving, restraints at the ready: ‘Okay, okay... I did it. Happy now, you shower of shite? I stuck a hammer in his head. So what? Doing the world a huge bloody favour, that’s what it was.’

‘We need to hear it from you again,’ Siobhan hissed in his ear.

‘What?’

‘When we let go of you, you’ll need to say it all again.’ She released her grip as the officers moved in.

‘Otherwise,’ she explained, ‘people might think I’d twisted your arm.’

They took a coffee break eventually, Siobhan standing with eyes closed as she leaned against the drinks machine. Les Young had opted for the soup, despite her warnings. He now sniffed the contents of his cup and winced.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

Siobhan opened her eyes. ‘I think you chose badly.’

‘I meant Mangold.’

Siobhan shrugged. ‘He wants to go down for it.’

‘Yes, but did he do it?’

‘Either him or Ishbel.’

‘He loves her, doesn’t he?’

‘I get that impression.’

‘So he could be covering for her?’

She shrugged again. ‘Wonder if he’ll end up on the same wing as Stuart Bullen. That would be a kind of justice, wouldn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’ Young sounded sceptical.

‘Cheer up, Les,’ Siobhan told him. ‘We got a result.’

He made a show of studying the drinks machine’s front panel. ‘Something you don’t know, Siobhan...’

‘What?’

‘This is my first time leading a murder team. I want to get it right .’

‘Doesn’t always happen in the real world, Les.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘But at least now you can say you’ve dipped a toe in the water.’

He smiled. ‘While you headed for the deep.’

‘Yes...’ she said, voice trailing off, ‘and nearly didn’t come up again.’

Edinburgh Royal Infirmary was sited just outside the city, in an area called Little France.

At night, Rebus thought it resembled Whitemire, the car park lit but the world around it in darkness. There was a starkness to the design, and the compound seemed self-contained. The air as he stepped from his Saab felt different from the city centre: fewer poisons, but colder, too. It didn’t take him long to find Alan Traynor’s room. Rebus himself had been a patient here not so long ago, but in an open ward. He wondered if someone was paying for Traynor’s privacy: his American employers maybe.

Or the UK’s own Immigration Service.

Felix Storey sat dozing by the bedside. He’d been reading a women’s magazine. From its frayed edges, Rebus guessed it had come from a pile in another part of the hospital. Storey had removed his suit jacket and placed it over the back of his chair. He still wore his tie, but with the top button of his shirt undone. For him it was a casual look. He was snoring quietly as Rebus entered. Traynor, on the other hand, was awake but looked dopey. His wrists were bandaged, and a tube led into one arm. His eyes barely focused on Rebus as he entered. Rebus gave a little wave anyway, and kicked one of the chair legs. Storey’s head jerked up with a snort.

‘Wakey-wakey,’ Rebus said.

‘What time is it?’ Storey ran a hand down his face.

‘Quarter past nine. You make a lousy guard.’

‘I just want to be here when he wakes up.’

‘Looks to me like he’s been awake a while.’ Rebus nodded towards Traynor. ‘Is he on painkillers?’

‘A hefty dose, so the doctor said. They want a shrink to look at him tomorrow.’

‘Get anything out of him today?’

Storey shook his head. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you let me down.’

‘How’s that?’ Rebus asked.

‘You promised you’d go with me to Whitemire.’

‘I break promises all the time,’ Rebus said with a shrug. ‘Besides, I had some thinking to do.’

‘About what?’

Rebus studied him. ‘Easier if I show you.’

‘I don’t...’ Storey looked towards Traynor.

‘He’s not fit to answer any questions, Felix. Anything he gives you would be thrown out of court...’

‘Yes, but I shouldn’t just...’

‘I think you should.’

‘Someone has to keep watch.’

‘In case he tries topping himself again? Look at him, Felix, he’s in another place.’

Storey looked, and seemed to concede the point.

‘Won’t take long,’ Rebus assured him.

‘What is it you want me to see?’

‘That would spoil the surprise. Do you have a car?’ Rebus watched Storey nod. ‘Then you can follow me.’

‘Follow you where?’

‘Got any trunks with you?’

‘Trunks?’ Storey’s eyebrows furrowed.

‘Never mind,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll just have to improvise...’

Rebus drove carefully, keeping an eye on the headlights in his rearview. Improvisation, he couldn’t help thinking, was at the heart of everything he was about to do. Halfway, he called Storey on his mobile, told him they were nearly there.

‘This better be worth it,’ came the tetchy reply.

‘I promise,’ Rebus said. The city outskirts first: bungalows fronting the route, housing schemes hidden behind them. It was the bungalows visitors would see, Rebus realised, and they’d think what a nice, upright place Edinburgh was. The reality was waiting somewhere else, just out of their eye-line.

Waiting to pounce.

There wasn’t much traffic about: they were skirting the southern edge of the city. Morningside was the first real clue that Edinburgh might have some night life: bars and takeaways, supermarkets and students. Rebus signalled left, checking in his mirror that Storey did the same. When his mobile sounded, he knew it would be Storey: irritated further and wondering how much longer.

‘We’re here,’ Rebus muttered under his breath. He pulled into the kerb, Storey following suit. The Immigration man was first out of his car.

‘Time to stop with the games,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Rebus answered, turning away. They were on a leafy suburban street, large houses silhouetted against the sky. Rebus pushed open a gate, knowing Storey would follow. Instead of trying the bell, Rebus headed for the driveway, walking purposefully now.

The jacuzzi was still there, its cover removed once more, steam billowing from it.

Big Ger Cafferty in the water, arms stretched out along its sides. Opera music on the sound system.

‘You sit in that thing all day?’ Rebus asked.

‘Rebus,’ Cafferty drawled. ‘And you’ve brought your boyfriend: how touching.’ He ran a hand over his matted chest-hair.

‘I’m forgetting,’ Rebus said, ‘the two of you have never actually met in person, have you? Felix Storey, meet Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

Rebus was studying Storey’s reaction. The Londoner slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘what’s going on here?’

‘Nothing.’ Rebus paused. ‘I just thought you might want to put a face to the voice.’

‘What?’

Rebus didn’t bother answering straight away. He was staring up at the room above the garage. ‘No Joe tonight, Cafferty?’

‘He gets the odd night off, when I don’t think I’ll be needing him.’

‘Number of enemies you’ve made, I wouldn’t have thought you ever felt safe.’

‘We all need a bit of risk from time to time.’ Cafferty had busied himself with the control panel, turning off jets and music both. But the light was still active, still changing colour every ten or fifteen seconds.

‘Look, am I being fitted up here?’ Storey asked. Rebus ignored him. His eyes were on Cafferty.

‘You bear a grudge a long time, I’ll give you that. When was it you fell out with Rab Bullen? Fifteen... twenty years ago? But that grudge gets passed down the generations, eh, Cafferty?’